


The Lead

by KatyaMorrigan



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Emotionally Intelligent Draco Malfoy, F/M, First Kiss, Fix-It of Sorts, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Interviews, Journalist Hermione Granger, People Change People, Post-Canon, Reminiscing, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:21:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27668107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatyaMorrigan/pseuds/KatyaMorrigan
Summary: Hermione Granger, the top reporter for the Daily Prophet, has been given an interesting lead: an anonymous donation to a leading Muggle-wizarding relations charity has been tracked back to Draco Malfoy. What this means, Hermione doesn't know. But whatever she can find out by talking to the reclusive ex-Death Eater will make a cracking article, regardless of what it reveals.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Kudos: 30





	The Lead

**Author's Note:**

> Day 19 of my NaNoWriMo writing challenge this year - one oneshot a day, every day for the whole of November. I'm following the SOFTober 2020 prompts by @wafflesandkruge on Instagram to give me some fluffy starting points for the coming month of fics.  
> The prompt for today was "contact".  
> I hope you enjoy!

“We don’t know what might come of it,” her supervisor said, giving a small smile. “But it’s worth considering. Have a good weekend, Hermione.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said, standing up from the seat in front of the imposing desk and leaving the room. There was going to be a lot of work this weekend.

Being called in to see the supervisor was rarely a good thing, but in Hermione’s case, it often was. As the leading reporter for the Daily Prophet, she was given significant leads ahead of other journalists even if they were more experienced in that area than her. Hermione wasn’t inexperienced herself – a lifetime of fighting for the good of the wizarding world made sure of that – but as with topics such as this, it wasn’t something she had covered before.

A mysteriously large donation had been made to the most prominent Muggle-wizarding relations charity some days ago. Thomas and Finnegan’s had received over a million Galleons from an anonymous source, but some digging done by the Daily Prophet’s research team had uncovered a secret Gringotts account linked to one person: Draco Malfoy.

Was it entirely likely that this was some elaborate ploy being orchestrated for the benefit of his public image? Yes. But was that the only answer? Definitely not. Whatever the truth turned out to be, it would be a fantastic article that could put Hermione’s name up there for the new journalistic prize that the Ministry offered. Hermione had set out to do what the Daily Prophet had never done before: serious reporting work. All her efforts had been to undo the lasting impact of corrupt writers like Rita Skeeter, and to return journalism to where it should have always been. Hermione dealt in facts and hard truths, delivering justice through exposes of people that the public should know about.

Draco Malfoy had been on her backlist of people that should be dealt with in this manner, but as always, the news moved fast and it was more important to keep up with what was fresh than to go digging in the back for something that had slipped from the population’s attention. As it stood, there was something about him now that could return the public eye to his actions. And Hermione was about to be in on it.

Her supervisor had given her the number of Malfoy’s secretary, and Hermione rang it from her office phone.

“Hello? Am I speaking to the secretary of Draco Malfoy?” she inquired.

“No,” came a man’s voice, “you are speaking to Draco Malfoy. Who am I talking to?”

“Malfoy! Oh!” Hermione stuttered. She hadn’t expected to have to speak to him, and now her carefully planned script was falling out of her mind. “This is Hermione Granger, of the Daily Prophet.”

“And of my Transfiguration classes. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Yes, that’s right, we did have Transfiguration together…” Hermione trailed off. “Um, yes. I’m calling to book an appointment to interview you.”

“Interview me? Whatever for?”

“I was given a lead that I wanted to follow up, and it requires a conversation with you. I was expecting to talk to your secretary, and to book an appointment the traditional way, but it seems you were already by the phone.”

“No,” Malfoy said. “I don’t have a secretary. I claim to have one so that I have to deal with fewer people. Going through a second party tends to deter irritating conversations with salespeople and journalists.”

“Right.” Hermione was unconsciously chewing the inside of her cheek, and stopped as soon as she realised. “Well, I would like to book an appointment to speak with you.”

“You can come by Malfoy Manor tomorrow. I have nothing on all day.”

“What time? Are you—”

The line went dead. Hermione dialled the number again but he didn’t pick up. Confused, frustrated, and already somewhat regretting her eagerness to take up the lead, Hermione prepared to go home for the evening. Some weekend she was going to have…

***

How does one decide what time to arrive for an appointment with no fixed slot? Hermione found herself thinking this over from the moment she woke up until she was fully dressed and ready with a voice recorder and large roll of parchment in her briefcase. She considered calling Malfoy again to ask, but felt certain that she would have the same luck as before. Hermione waited restlessly in her apartment for another hour until the clock was reaching towards eleven in the morning, and then decided it was late enough in the day to look professional but not anti-social.

Still disconcerted, she made the journey to Malfoy Manor by Apparating. Hermione had gotten more used to it over the years since Hogwarts, and now preferred it over the nauseating blur of Floo travel or even worse, flying on brooms.

Her calculations had been a little off, and Hermione found herself just outside the gate at Malfoy Manor. She prepared to simply Apparate up to the doorstep, but as soon as she had brushed down the front of her blouse, the gate started to creak open automatically. Even stranger. Not wanting to appear obstinate now that the path had been opened to her, Hermione walked up to the front of the house instead.

The short walk was enough to make her slightly out of breath. Hermione was not unfit, nor was she anxious, but the apprehension and uncertainty regarding what would happen that day mixed with some unexpected exertion was enough to feel decidedly sticky and not as carefree as she would have preferred to appear in front of someone she had long considered an enemy. Malfoy had been a bully and an annoyance throughout her early years at Hogwarts, and had then turned into a darker sort of problem. He had redeemed himself a little during the Battle of Hogwarts and immediate aftermath, testifying against his father and other family members in the series of trials that had followed, but apart from that he had disappeared from the public eye. And that in itself was a curiosity that needed unpicking.

Hermione reached the door and prepared herself to knock. Unfortunately though, as soon as her feet landed on the front step, the door opened before her and Draco Malfoy was stood there. There was no time for a final touch-up of her appearance – he was in front of her, and his immediate judgement would pass there.

She hardly recognised him compared to the arrogant but scared boy she had known at Hogwarts. Malfoy wore an ivory cloak with a matching tie, along with a navy blue Muggle suit and diamond tiepin. His hair had been grown out a little longer than Hermione remembered, but was not the thick ponytail that Malfoy senior had worn – instead, it was simply a longer version of his previous slicked-back look, with white curls at the nape of his neck that brushed the top of his cloak and suit collar. There was a hint of stubble around his jaw, and creases between his eyebrows that showed he had certainly aged beyond the eighteen years that Hermione had last seen him at. Malfoy looked like a man now.

“Welcome to my house, Ms Granger,” he said, giving her a formal but not unfriendly smile. “Please come in.”

Hermione returned his smile uneasily and stepped inside. She had expected some remnants of the house she had once been imprisoned in to linger, but was pleasantly surprised to find it looked nothing like the gothic lair that still haunted her dreams sometimes. Everything that had made that mansion a nightmare had been stripped back: gone were the sinister Malfoy family portraits and dark wood wainscotting, the elaborate Edwardian carvings and barely covered floorboards. Instead it was now light and airy, with a glazed tile floor covered in minimalistic rugs that were lit up by a huge skylight. The walls were a faded grey stucco, and now had some simple framed photos of the Malfoys as they had looked when Draco was a child. This place wasn’t haunting anymore. It was just the house you would imagine a millionaire’s heir to live in.

Malfoy led her through the hallway into a large open kitchen. It too had clearly been remodelled – now it consisted of white granite surfaces, a long kitchen island with steel barstools along it, and had an open view through the dining room which was on a lower level into the neatly ornamented garden through wall-to-wall windows.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Hermione said, “when did you have the house upgraded?”

Malfoy turned and looked at her.

“Has the interview already started?” he grinned. Hermione didn’t answer, but he continued talking anyway. “As soon as my mother died I had everything changed in here. I had no desire to move elsewhere, but couldn’t stay in a house that reminded me of every poor decision that the Malfoy family has made. It took a lot of time and money, but it is no longer a place that haunts me.”

He walked to the fridge and opened it, taking out a bottle of sparkling water and pouring them each a glass.

“Mind you,” he mused, “you might want to use that in your article. It would make a good pull quote.” 

Malfoy indicated for Hermione to sit at the island, and placed a glass in front of her. He took a seat as well.

“Is this an okay place to have the interview? I have an office space, but there aren’t any other chairs so it may not be the most comfortable.”

“This is just fine, thank you.” Hermione shifted on her stool, putting her foot out to stop it spinning, and took a sip of her sparkling water. “I’ll get out my voice recorder and some parchment, and we can begin.”

“No use for Quick Quotes Quills, then?” Malfoy asked with another grin. Hermione frowned as she turned on the recorder.

“I aim to be the antithesis of Rita Skeeter,” she informed him, “and so I pride myself on the legitimacy of the articles I print.”

“And yet you are here, in the home of a registered Death Eater, to talk to him about his past, presumably.” Malfoy stretched out his arms, gesturing to the open space. The corner of his shirt lifted and Hermione caught sight of a triangle of white stomach. She moved her gaze back to the tools on the counter and checked the recorder instinctively.

“I have a number of things I wish to talk to you about,” Hermione said, “but first I wanted to give you the opportunity to introduce yourself and discuss anything you might want aired for my readers. My column focuses on issues that the wizarding community should be aware of, in particular the uncomfortable truths and misfortunes that our government and wider society does not want to consider. So tell me: who are you?”

“I am Draco Malfoy,” he said, every ounce of confidence in his voice, “and I am the sole heir to the Malfoy family name, fortune, and reputation. I started life as a privileged Pureblood boy and rose through the ranks of wizarding aristocracy to become another member of Lord Voldemort’s cult. It was once I had sunk that far that I actually began to question the morality and consequences of the choices I had been making, buoyed on my family’s traditional views and conservative values that had led me down a path that I quickly realised I wasn’t happy walking. From there, I shirked off the darkest acts that I could onto others who were genuinely convinced of the beliefs Voldemort held, and started to make small rebellions where I could. I was able to save Harry Potter in one critical act that I will never forget, and so, I’d like to think, played some small hand in the ultimate downfall of the Dark Arts.

“And now I simply live here, alone in my mansion, continuing to make the best choices I am able to make and hoping that one day I can enact larger, more important change for the wizarding population.” He paused in his monologue and looked at Hermione. “Kind of like yourself.”

She was impressed, there was no doubt about it. Had there ever been an opportunity to ask, Hermione would have definitely liked to have known what Malfoy’s beliefs were in regards to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and the extremism that he had headed. It was an even more pleasant surprise that actually, Malfoy had had a clear change of heart and had been actively working against the Dark Arts however he could. Granted, it didn’t change the fact that he had been a privileged bully who had become a supremacist, no matter how selflessly he owned those statements.

“So you live alone,” she continued, “in your parents’ old house, doing what?”

“Mostly I have been focused on myself in recent years,” Malfoy said. “Which sounds an awful lot like everything I did from Hogwarts and onwards, but I like to think the self-absorption is healthier now. I have been seeing a therapist once a week since the year following the Battle of Hogwarts, reading a lot of books around the kind of indoctrination I underwent, and generally trying to undo and make peace with my past so that I am able to move on.”

“And you have been doing this for five years?” Hermione couldn’t help the hint of suspicion and judgement that had crept into her voice.

“How much of what happened with the Dark Lord’s rise to power have you processed, Ms Granger?” he asked. Hermione was struck by Malfoy’s sudden intense focus on her. His eyes were still the piercing slate-grey they had been at Hogwarts, but the shallow lines around them now seemed to pinpoint his gaze even more. “Do you feel you are who you could have been without the war?”

“What do you mean by that?” she replied sharply.

“I mean that if you had taken say, five years to go to therapy and reflect on even the most uncomfortable parts of what you experienced during the war, to examine the choices you made, and to forgive yourself for them, do you feel that the product of that would be exactly who you are now?”

Hermione said nothing. She had thrown herself completely into work following the war, searching for a method by which to exact justice for the world she had seen fall apart and be caught only at the last second. There were still nights now when she woke up sobbing or screaming, moments where a flicker caught her eye and she would freeze in terror, believing it to be a knife in the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange. She wasn’t whole, that was for certain.

“None of us will ever be what we would have become without a war,” Hermione said carefully, “and what matters now is accepting that there was a war, and that person cannot exist anymore.”

“And have you made peace with that knowledge?” Malfoy was leaning on the counter, those intense eyes looking into her. “I certainly haven’t, even with those hours of self-reflection. I am one of the lucky ones, who was caught on the wrong side and had to suffer to knowledge not of what I endured, but of what I and those like me forced others to endure. I cannot imagine how painful it must be for you and others like you to grapple with that. I am one of the lucky ones, and I am still not healed yet.”

He finally released his position, settling back onto his stool and taking a sip of sparkling water.

“Do you truly consider yourself one of the lucky ones, then?” Hermione asked, swallowing and reaching for her own glass.

“Absolutely.” Malfoy shook his head sadly. “The amount of trauma I am still struggling with now, as someone who was born privileged and raised privileged… I cannot imagine what it must be like for the half-blood and Muggleborn wizarding folk that suffered as a result of the horrors enacted by the followers of Lord Voldemort. I myself was one of them, although I was undoubtedly not the worst, and I am determined not to deflect my involvement simply because I was not an active murderer like others. I contributed just by being there, every single day. And I did not try to stop them.”

“But you made efforts to limit the damage they did,” Hermione said. She found herself empathising with him by one small increment. “It would have been suicide to try and save the world as a young man like you were.”

Malfoy gave a mirthless chuckle.

“I left it for other young men to suicidally try to save the world.”

He took a deep breath and another sip of water.

“But you don’t want a piece about the regrets of an ex-Death Eater, do you? There is no interest in the remorse I feel. I do not deserve to have it aired to the people, and I have gone far beyond my introduction. Tell me, what do you really want this article to be about?”

This was it. She had to test the lead now, to see if it was made of something real.

“I heard from my supervisor about an anonymous donation made to Thomas and Finnegan’s Charity for the Development of Interpersonal Wizarding Relations.” Hermione stopped there, watching Malfoy’s expression. There was no change, no shift in the muscles of his face. One hand on his thigh shifted, but nothing else.

“It is wonderful to see the increase in charitable acts in recent years,” he said idly.

“Are you interested in how large this donation was?”

“You seem likely to tell me.”

“One and a half million Galleons.”

“An organisation, then, surely,” he said. “No one individual has that amount of money.”

“Except, of course, the kinds of Pureblood inheritors who can afford mass renovations of a Tudor-age building in Wiltshire.” Hermione continued watching him. “The account linked to the donation was under the name of one Mr Draco Malfoy.”

He inhaled slowly and moved in his seat. A strand of hair slipped from behind his ear and bounced beside his nose for a second before Malfoy tucked it back in place.

“And you are interested in whether or not this donation is genuine, I suppose.”

“In whether it is genuine, and in whether there was any kind of intent behind the donation.” Hermione leaned back in her seat, smoothing her hands down the cream skirt she wore. “I come to a house that looks nothing like the one I was imprisoned in six years ago, to a man who talks of self-improvement and remorse and a desire to change the world for the better, on a lead that initially made me suspicious of foul play. You aren’t the Draco Malfoy I expected to find.”

“And you are exactly the Hermione Granger I expected to visit me,” he responded, some of the old harshness in his voice. “Clever, sharp, and always looking in places you shouldn’t look.”

She scoffed.

“In the accounts of charities?”

“Why do you care what I do with my money?” he said. “You were determined to dig my name back up from the dirt, pile on the same smears I endured immediately following the war, and turn the Malfoys back into the worst Pureblood supremacists since Voldemort himself.”

“That wasn’t my intent,” she protested. “I came here to follow a lead, because anything about the Malfoys is in public interest to know. I didn’t know whether I was going to find good or bad, only that there was something I could find and so I couldn’t leave it be.”

“Of course you couldn’t. You had to keep looking. Classic Hermione Granger, hoping everyone is still as black and white as they were in first year.”

“I was hoping to find you’d changed, and you have.”

There was a pause. Malfoy didn’t hit back with an immediate retort. Tension still simmered between them, but there was relief in the halt.

“You wanted me to have changed?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Hermione replied. She took a deep breath. “All I want is for the world to be a better place than it was when we were young, and it starts with people changing. I’m trying to make change in the best way I can, and so are you. Why you want to be anonymous in these donations, I don’t know, but you are still leading the way for greater improvements to wizarding life.”

“I don’t want people to know it is me,” Malfoy said, “because I am scared of them making the same judgement that you immediately did. That I want to play pretend at self-improvement and create an image of the reformed villain. That isn’t what I want. I want to do good without anyone knowing, because I don’t truly think I can do good unless it is with complete annihilation of ego.”

He gave her a soft smile.

“I have spent the last five years donating my money and my time to others who suffered because of the poor choices I made as a young man. I have used Polyjuice Potion and a number of other disguise methods to be able to do the manual labour, building homes for orphaned magical children. I have done the same in order to volunteer for hotlines for wizarding folk stuck in homes that do not accept them. I have created alter egos who give seminars on the importance of tolerance and the lessons we can learn from the war so that I can preach what I now believe and wish to see enacted in the world without having the Malfoy name attached. I can live and die anonymous, as the last heir to a line of despicable human beings. All I need is to know that I have created positive change where there previously was none. Nobody else needs to know it was me.”

And Hermione understood completely. How could she not? This was not the person she had expected to meet, or the story she had expected to tell. All the same, there was the opportunity for an absolutely killer headline, but now she saw how much damage it could do to peel back those layers of protection and expose Malfoy as he was now.

“I don’t know what to do now,” she said, tapping the top of her voice recorder. “You don’t want to be written about, and I don’t want to destroy what you have tried to create. How do I go forwards now?”

“You can still write your article. You can talk about me, and the man you met when you came here today. Just leave out the acts of charity. Talk about the growth you think I have undergone.”

“I know you have undergone it.”

Malfoy smiled at her again, and Hermione returned it.

“The one thing my therapist always tells me,” he said, “is that I will never truly believe I can be different from the person I was before, but that it doesn’t mean I am not a completely different human being.”

“I see you.”

Hermione reached out a hand, and was reminded of the scene she had witnessed between two boys at opposite ends of the wizarding world outside the Great Hall one September afternoon so many years ago. But this time, she was making the offer. Malfoy took her hand with both of his and held it tightly.

“I had my suspicions about why you had decided to call in,” he said. “But I didn’t expect us to end up seeing eye-to-eye.”

They sat for a moment, hands still clasped, looking at each other like they had never met before.

“What did you think of me?” Hermione asked. “After all these years?”

He took a deep breath and gazed out to the garden, looking back at her as he exhaled.

“That you have turned into exactly the person I would have thought you’d become when we were first years,” he said. “Dedicated, ferocious, and undeterrable.”

Hermione smiled properly at that, and Malfoy chuckled.

“We would have been friends in another version of this world,” he said. “In a world where I hadn’t been raised to view you as different from me.”

“Well,” Hermione said, a little apprehensive, “we can be friends now. We can start again.”

Malfoy gave another chuckle and let go of her hand.

“I already feel that I know you well. I must admit, I have followed your column in the Daily Prophet since they hired you, and it feels like I have gotten to know you that way. Reading your thoughts every week, learning about you through the people that you interview and reveal in your articles.”

Hermione found herself flushing a little. How had she not considered that Malfoy read the newspaper? Just because he had dropped from the radar didn’t mean that he wasn’t a part of normal society still.

“It’s nothing bad,” he said, mistaking her embarrassment for discomfort.

“No, it’s just strange,” she said. “One conversation with you and I feel the same way.”

They looked at each other for a moment. Hermione was aware of how close they were sitting – her knees were almost brushing his, both of them with elbows on the counter leant forward to listen as they talked. He was still so pale, just as he had been in Hogwarts. When Hermione had first seen him outside the Great Hall on their first day at school, she had thought he looked like a marble angel. He still looked like that now.

“Is your voice recorder still on?” Malfoy asked, his voice lower than before.

“It can be turned off,” she replied, not looking away from him. Hermione reached across the counter to press the button, but found Malfoy’s hand there too. She looked back at him, and they shared a brief smile. Hermione moved Draco’s hand by the wrist, paused the recording, and leaned forwards. He met her lips immediately, his mouth soft and warm. It felt so expected, the way his lips worked against hers, the way his hand raised to very delicately touch her cheek. Not for one moment did Hermione think about the fact that she was meant to be working, that she had come here for a journalistic scoop about a man she had such deep reservations about. Her mind was only on the way he was touching her face, the firm movement of his mouth, the surety with which he had asked for what he wanted. This was not the Draco Malfoy she had expected to find, but she was so grateful that it was the one she had met.

Draco pulled away first, just the smallest fraction, and Hermione opened her eyes slowly. She was looking into those slate-grey eyes again, but now that cold intensity was like the rumble of a thunderstorm – electric and building.

The rest of her afternoon at Malfoy Manor passed more casually. Draco offered to make her lunch, and she dined in the kitchen with him, the voice recorder still turned off. They talked more about themselves, about where they had been since Hogwarts. Hermione learned about Draco’s hobbies, about his gardening and meditating and clarinet-playing; Draco learned about Hermione’s journalistic achievements, about her public speaking and tennis-playing and creative writing. They pondered the future of the world they had been born into and were now shaping, about the work their old school friends were doing to better help this strange place they inhabited. They also kissed, quietly and sensitively on the sofa, Draco’s hands smoothing over Hermione’s back and hers playing with the soft curls at the back of his head.

She made him stop just for another hour at the end of the day, when the sun was threatening to set and the inset lights on the patio outdoors had illuminated to compensate, to discuss the interview she had had every intent on conducting.

“I have changed my mind,” Draco said with a smile, his fingers interlaced with hers. “You can write what you please about me. I have no doubt that it will be as respectful and truthful and plausibly deniable as you deem me fit to receive.”

Hermione had laughed at that.

“I won’t reveal your secrets,” she promised. “But I will present you as I think the world needs to see you: as the man you have become.”

“I think I can agree to that,” he smiled, kissing her softly beside her ear.

Hermione declined to stay for dinner. She feared what might happen if she stayed around Draco much longer, and about the consequences it could have for her career if ultimately it was revealed she had dined twice with Draco Malfoy in as many hours as she had been there, and had come away with a glowingly positive piece of writing about their conversations. He led her to the door, a hand on her waist, and Hermione leaned up to kiss him goodbye.

“Thank you for taking me as I am,” Malfoy said.

“I could say the same for you,” Hermione smiled. “I will send you a copy of piece before it goes to print so that you can check for inaccuracies in your statements.”

“You don’t need to do that.”

“I make sure I give every client the opportunity to object before their words become fact.”

“This client trusts you implicitly,” he said, pulling her into his arms and hugging her closely. Hermione inhaled deeply, breathing in his scent and smiling against his chest.

“Goodbye, Hermione.”

“Goodbye, Draco.”

As she walked to the end of the driveway before preparing to Apparate away, Hermione turned one last time to look back at him. Draco gave her a grin and waved goodbye. She waved back, and Apparated back to her apartment.

That day could have gone so very differently. Hermione had had no clear goal in mind when she had left the house, nothing set in stone about the interview she had been set to have with Draco Malfoy. But there was one thing for sure: Hermione was going to be able to write one hell of an article.

**Author's Note:**

> Whew, I wrote that entire thing in less than 2 hours. Talk about being possessed by some kind of prolific writer...  
> That was super fun to write. The main thing I always think about when it comes to the HP characters post-canon is whether they heal from everything they endured, and in particular how that fits in with certain blond boy's redemption arcs. I really wanted to write something like this, where Hermione discovers an emotionally intelligent and overall much better Draco Malfoy than the one she had expected to find, and as it turns out, journalist!Hermione is the best way to do that. I hope the little plot I set out in this makes sense, and that the character's reactions seem sensible considering what it is they're talking about. This is probably the quickest kiss scene I've ever written, in terms of a plot timeline, so idk lol. Hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> The next prompt is "notes", and will be a Lore Olympus Persephone/Hades fic.


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